Wouldyou blame me if I told you I was scared?

My speechlessness should make it

obvious.

I never thought you were beautiful

until I saw you written out on paper,

the very epitome of eloquent and inspired,

exposed in a scribble here and a flourish there

(and it made me jealous).

You took that away from me

Now you write clichéd songs and beginner's poetry

instead of lengthy prose in that articulate way that I know you wished you talked in

and I so want to tell you to give it up

but they're all about me so what kind of person would that make me

and plus they make me smile

even though I figure that only half of it is true.

I've learned that most things are often too good to be true,

so yeah I guess you could say I'm hesitant.

So imagine my indecision when you sang me that song,

and begged me for the thing that I was most unable to give.

Does it make me a liar that I agreed, or does it just make a thief?

Because you give and give and give and all I can do is offer you tiniest bit of my heart

in my outstretched hand.